The Taste Of Ink
by MysticShadowWanderer
Summary: One: I don't believe in God. Two: I don't believe in Hell. Three: You're a worthless, sniveling, waste of human flesh. Now, give me a reason that I shouldn't kill you." [AU][KK]
1. Is it worth is? Can you even hear me?

The Taste Of Ink  
Mystic Shadow Wanderer  
  
Disclaimer: It's 11.45 at night. I have school tomorrow. Do you think I'm in the mood for a disclaimer?

* * *

Chapter One: It is worth it? Can you even hear me?  
  
Why do we do the things that we do? Why, in fact, are we living on this earth? I often wonder those things, and for all the years that I've been trying to understand, or find something that even resembles an answer, I still don't understand and I still don't have any answers.  
  
If we're here for the betterment of mankind, I'm screwed. Someone who kills other people on contract certainly isn't helping better the totality of the human race, even though I'd like to think I make a difference. Somehow, though, I don't think that's what any of us are here for. Humans have been around for thousands of years, and quality of life, real quality of heart and strength of character, seem to be deteriorating. So it makes sense that we're put through this living hell for something other than "the good of mankind."   
  
As I sip my coffee, I try to keep myself from snorting. 'The good of mankind, indeed. What the hell has mankind done that merits our doing anything to help them out?' Nothing comes to mind.   
  
Some people call it inexcusable to have such a demeaning opinion of the sanctity of human life, but I've always believed that those people are ignorant. If they would step back from the silvery illusion that is their imitation of living and take a good hard look at the real world, they might think differently. But the day that happens will be the day that I convert to religion. Hell, I'll even let them choose which religion.  
  
The ringing of my cell phone interrupts the course of my thoughts. I growl as I pull it out of my pocket and wait just a moment before answering; I hate being interrupted.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Gods, someone's in a bad mood today." It just has to be Iizuka, it always does.   
  
"Do you have something constructive to tell me, or are you just wasting my time?"  
  
"Just wasting your time."  
  
I love the sound my phone makes when I snap it shut, it's almost as satisfying as the sound bones make when they crack under my katana. There's something about the finality of it that leaves me feeling as if I've accomplished something, that something being the elimination of an annoyance. Man, that sounds fucked up. Days like these make me wonder why I even bother fucking getting out of bed in the morning, besides for the fact that I despise sleep.  
  
Yes, that's right ladies and gentleman, Himura Kenshin is a freak that hates what most people revel in, that being sleep. Maybe it's not so much that I hate sleep that I hate waking up. Or maybe it's the dreams. As I haven't yet mastered the technique of lucid dreaming, I have to accept whatever plays out before my closed eyes. Simply put, my dreams suck.  
  
I overheard a conversation the other day, which is something I don't usually do, but this one caught my attention. This woman was talking to what appeared to be her boyfriend while I was, most unfortunately, standing behind her in line at a grocery store, of all places. Not the type of place you hear the most intelligent conversations, but I couldn't help but listen in to this one.   
  
"I think dreams are what keep you sane," she said. "You know, you build up all this tension, and you get so angry, and maybe you feel like killing someone, but you just can't do anything about it. In dreams, you can do whatever you want. So maybe your subconscious sort of, you know, helps you out. When you're dreaming, you can kill people, or fly, or do whatever you want, you know, and nobody can stop you. So you kill people or do whatever and it helps you release pent-up frustrations, you know?"  
  
She said "you know" too often, and that pissed me off, so I stopped listening, but at least I remember what she said. Thinking back on it, I decide she's wrong. If dreams keep you sane, I would make one terrifying psychopath. Already an assassin, what would I do if I went nuts? Maybe I already am nuts. Who knows? More importantly, who cares? No one, that's who.  
  
Dreams are only so much bullshit. I have this one, where I'm running about the city, slaughtering people (how original). It's not that bad, I guess, until it starts raining organs. Is it normal to find amusement in spleens falling from the sky? I don't think so, but, then again, it doesn't really bother me. People put too much importance on normalcy, whatever that may be defined as. Another thing that perplexes me: What exactly is normal? Society looks at you and says "My God, he's not normal," but then they go to their respective homes and take pleasure in such things as beating their children, abusing their bodies with drugs and alcohol, or watching degrading television shows. I swear, I will never understand society.  
  
Looking over at the clock on the microwave, I realize that it's far past time for me to at least make an appearance at the office. I groan as I sling my bag over my shoulder; it's not as if I need this job, it's so worthless to the fulfillment of life, but at least it's something to do all day. I don't have many hobbies.

* * *

"You're late Mr. Himura," the receptionist says as I attempt to make it to my office without being hassled. So much for that plan.  
  
"You're quick," I snap as I continue on, not even sparing her a glance.  
  
When I slam the door behind me, I hear her mutter something about how she'd thought the Japanese were supposed to be polite. That's almost enough to make me laugh. Almost. The stupidity of the stereotypical, conservative world never fails to be amusing. Everyone must be the same when they're all from one place, mustn't they? My breath hisses through my teeth as I throw my bag on the floor and sit heavily in the expensive leather chair behind my desk.   
  
Another meaningless day at work is set to begin.  
  
'Why don't I just stop coming?' I ask myself. 'I don't need the money, and I certainly don't need the irritation.' The simple fact of the matter is that I have nothing better to do with my time; I really need to learn how to have fun.  
  
"Mr. Himura?" God her voice is annoying. "You have a new client here to see you."  
  
"Send them in." I try to keep conversation with that pitiful waste of a brain to a minimum.  
  
The door swings open and a girl with long, black hair steps inside, seating herself on the other side of my desk with no hesitation. At least she wasn't the type to wait for me to ask her to sit, because I never would have. Seriously, if I didn't want these people to sit, there wouldn't be a chair for them. That's just another one of the things that makes me question the overall intelligence of the human race.  
  
"What can I do for you Miss...?"  
  
"Kamiya." She's Japanese? Lovely, my secretary is going to have a field day with this.  
  
"Kamiya. Thank you." I'm not all that rude, really. Just to that bitch of a secretary. Perhaps I should fire her, I think momentarily.  
  
"I need a lawyer," the girl, she can't be much older than eighteen, says.  
  
"That does seem rather apparent, as this does happen to be a law firm. One would assume that you didn't wind up here by chance." I raise my eyebrows at her.  
  
"And with that insult to my intelligence, I shall continue," she replies quickly. "I need an excellent lawyer, is what I should have said. I've heard that you're good, but I wanted to discover that for myself. Just how good are you?"  
  
"Very good, considered by some the best." This is interesting. "It depends, however, on the gravity of your case."  
  
"Can you get someone off for murder?"  
  
"Did you murder someone?" Very interesting.  
  
"That depends on if you can defend a murder case."  
  
"Of course." Alright. She has my attention. "I've done it before."  
  
"Then you can be my lawyer."  
  
"I thank you for such a great honor." There is a very thin line between amusing and annoying, and she's dancing all over it.  
  
Rolling her eyes, she stands and extends her hand to me. I take it and we shake; she has a firm grip. "Expect the full details of the case to be on your desk by tomorrow morning." And with that she leaves.  
  
As the door clicks shut, I stand behind my desk, fighting the urge to scratch my head like a moron. That was extremely unorthodox, not to mention strange. But as I myself am extremely unorthodox and probably more than a little strange, I suppose it doesn't matter. A hired killer that moonlights as a lawyer. Or is it the other way around? Either way, it makes it more than a bit ironic that I'm going to be defending a murder case. I always love it when I get cases like that, simply because I know that whether my client is found guilty or not, I can commit the same crime over and over and get away with it. People really need to learn to be more careful.  
  
I quickly decide that I'm done for the day, and pick up my bag, which I never even opened in the first place. As much as I hate working in this office, this prison without bars, I just keep coming back. At least I can set my own hours.  
  
Today is the day I learn to lighten up, I resolve. Sure, I know I take things too seriously, but it's not as if I can stand the rest of the world enough to do anything else. Maybe going to see a movie is what I need to do. It's one place that people can't piss me off by trying to talk to me, and there might be something playing that can amuse me for a few hours, or perhaps at least give me food for thought.   
  
Stopping briefly to drop my bag off at my apartment and change clothes from the suit and tie required by my office to more comfortable khakis and a black t-shirt, I head to the theater. I despise waiting in line, but at least here it gives me time to scan the posters of the movies that are now-playing. The choices are rather bleak, but I settled for Van Helsing, as it was rather long and had a good chance of having some death in it. I don't like happy movies.

* * *

Two hours and forty-five minutes later, I step out of the theater, blinking against the brightness of the sun, and wonder about what I've just seen. It gave me nothing but a completely stereotypical view of vampires, werewolves, and referred to Victor Frankenstein's monster as "Frankenstein," something that greatly irks me, but it wasn't entirely boring. I won't see it again, but at least I didn't fall asleep.   
  
'I really don't have much of a life,' I remind myself, as if I need the reminder. 'Maybe I should take some kind of hallucinogen. It would be different.'  
  
The thought was so ludicrous that I actually did chuckle to myself. How hypocritical I sound. As a rule, I abhor the idea of putting poisons like that in my body. Why the youth of the world find so much pleasure in pumping their blood systems full of shit is beyond me.  
  
'Might as well go home. There's nothing for me here.'  
  
Upper-middle-class America. Some days it's enough to make me want to go back to Japan, besides the fact that I bloody well can't, as I have a reputation there that would make any hardened criminal wince. Any leader of any underground ring would recognize me within three seconds of passing me on the street, and I've been informed that normal citizens are starting to tell stories about me, as if I'm some sort of legendary figure. That's what the world goes for these days. They complain about all the bad news they see on television, but in their hearts they know that good news doesn't get ratings. People don't want good news, they want to sit on the edge of their seats, guessing at what a serial killer or rapist is going to do next. They don't want the missing person to be found, shaken up but alive, they want to see the photographs of the dead body. But if you say that, they'll deny it.  
  
Society is so hypocritical.

* * *

A/N: I shouldn't have started this. I really shouldn't. But I did, so that's that. I have too much to do as it is, but it's not like I'm going to do those things, so... yeah... have at it. This is a far cry from The Devil's Workshop or Night Stalker or any of that, so if you were expecting something like that, now you know. I'm writing this because I'm pissed off at how stupid the world is. If you don't like it, don't read it, but don't bother me about how you think it's so terrible and how all of my opinions are wrong. I REALLY don't want to hear it. You know why? I really don't care. If you do like it, then thank you, and I'd love it if you gave my opinions some thought, if you would be so kind. I'm not just some psychotic freak that's rambling and making shit up... I think... Oo Gah, it's late. Goodnight, self. And goodnight anyone else who happens to be reading this before bed (Gods, what kind of nightmares would I inspire?). 


	2. Standing with your spotlight on me

The Taste Of Ink  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: When you're right, everything else you messed up just might be wrong, you're wrong all the time. So far, so good, cause no one knows I'm faking. I wish I could show you the toll it's taking. Sometimes I live as if there's no tomorrow. So far, so good.

* * *

Chapter Two: Standing with your spotlight on me

* * *

The Kamiya girl didn't lie when she told me that I would have extensive details on her case by this morning. Having woken early, it seemed sensible to get a head start on work, although my reasoning behind that particular sentiment really isn't very logical. For someone who hates their job, it seems foolish to go to work early. But I figure that the sooner I get there, the sooner I can leave. Little did I expect to find several large folders' worth of documentation sitting on my desk, awaiting my arrival.   
  
"Jesus," is this only thing I can think to say as I let out a low whistle. This from a non-religious man.  
  
Flipping through the files, I can do nothing but stare. Yesterday, she told me that whether or not she committed a murder depended on if I could defend a murder case successfully. These people are dead any way I look at it, and I'm gazing at them every way possible. Some of these bodies don't look remotely human anymore. Even to one such as myself, an artist of destruction whose canvas is a human corpse, the photographs are a bit off-putting. Only a bit, though.   
  
My finger taps raptly on one of the pictures, a man who appears to have been strangled with a piano wire. Fascinated, I lean closer to get a better look at his lifeless face, which is extremely pale and has a slight blue tint to it. The method is slightly messy, I think to myself, but effective. It's easiest to tie each end of the wire to a block of wood, similar to the design of the thin pieces of wire that artists use to slice a section of clay away from the rest of the brick. When the device is pulled tightly around the victim's neck, it strangles them and slits their throat at the same time. Death by asphyxiation and loss of blood simultaneously. Quite creative, I muse.  
  
I am such a sick bastard. Any normal lawyer would be looking at these photos in disgust, possibly even turning away to avoid disgorging their breakfast and/or lunch all over their desk; it's that bad. But here I am, ever the morbid freak, finding the merits and faults in the style of murder and allowing myself just the slightest amusement in some cases.  
  
Somehow it's hard to believe that the proper, kind looking girl that sat in my office yesterday is the same one who drove a knife through this particular child's left eye and halfway through his brain. That photograph is the only that I find truly disturbing; I don't believe in killing children. To take the life of an innocent, someone who has the potential to help shatter the ideals of the modern world, is repulsive to me. At least I have some sense of a moral code, even if, for the most part, it's pretty fucked up.  
  
So, the question that remains to be answered is this: Is Kamiya Kaoru clinically insane, or is she just psychotic in the sense that I am? Or, is she just tired of the way this world works and willing to go to extremes to prove a point? I can't stand protestors.   
  
'Leave it alone, Himura,' I prompt myself. 'Don't immediately make any conclusions. That's the kind of shit that loses cases.'  
  
Alright, so I'll work off the information I have sitting in front of me. Setting the pictures aside where I won't be tempted to examine them for the entire day, I pull the stack of folders closer and take the first one off the top of the pile.   
  
"Where better to start than the beginning?"

* * *

Five hours later, I sit back in my chair and press my palms into my closed eyelids. Even if Kamiya isn't insane, I soon will be if I read any more of this. Why? Because there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've been given records of everything she's ever done in life, the schools she's gone to, the jobs she's had, the awards she's received. Yes, that's right, awards. For someone who's killed thirty-seven people, the girl has a shitload of pointless and superficial awards that, to the rest of the world, say that she's a prime example of a perfect citizen and student, not to mention artist. Painting, sculpting, two-dimensional and three-dimensional arts that I've never even heard of in my life (what the hell is batik?), creative writing, journalism, the list is, frankly, sickening. Currently, she's working as the head of the graphic designing department of a huge corporation and making almost as much money as I do, including both of my jobs. It's in-fucking-credible, if you ask me.  
  
"So what the hell is her problem? There has to be something here..." Up to my elbows in papers that I've strewn in different piles, my own system of organization, I dive back in to go through the things that I've already read.  
  
Suddenly I stop. Her parents. What about her parents? There is, as far as I can tell, nothing in here about her family. There must be something. I rack my brain, trying to remember seeing anything about her background. With a sigh, I begin to sift through every single document AGAIN. Now I just came to a realization. This is what hell would be like, if there were such a thing. I don't technically believe in hell, but if I did, I would be forever condemned to sorting through papers on some perfect bitch whose record is so spotless I can't find anything to help my case. Life can be such a pain in the ass.  
  
"Goddamn it," I hiss through my teeth as I reach into my desk for the bottle of aspirin that I always keep at hand. "Could she be any more of a perfectionist, suck-up, mindless slave to society?" Definitely time for headache prevention.  
  
Tossing back four aspirin with a swig from the water bottle in my bag, I settle back in my chair to get some more work done. Though I don't like to admit it, the whole case is captivating. It's one of those things that some heartless, son of a bitch, self-important Hollywood director is going to turn into a wicked movie someday. Like Helter Skelter, but creepier. I've seen a lot of strange cases, they come and go, but nothing like this. This is the kind of thing that the general public eats up, that they can't get enough of. I have a feeling this is going to be a very high profile trial. Just great; that means television crews and all that bullshit to deal with. I don't do very well with those sorts of things. I wonder how much it costs to replace a new network's smashed camera...

* * *

Another six harrowing, stressful hours of work on this case that seems to have been sent to me straight from the bowels of hell itself, and I'm ready to call it quits for the day. A glance at my wristwatch tells me that it's now four in the afternoon. I got here at five in the morning. That's entirely too long to sit in one office, even if I did put myself through it by choice. I'll just think of it as making up for the whole two hours I spent here yesterday. That makes it seem a bit more tolerable.   
  
There's more work to be done tonight, I remind myself. This morning, Iizuka actually had something to say to me that made it worth my while to listen. He was pissed off that I hung up on him the previous day, but that doesn't bother me in the slightest. It's not as if I actually like the man or want to talk to him. His only useful purpose is to inform me of when I have missions.   
  
I have to kill again tonight.

* * *

A/N: I hope you don't expect the chapter lengths to be the same as they, more or less, are in my other stories. I just write until I decide to stop, for whatever reason, whether it be artistic or because I'm just too damn lazy. I realize I probably just disturbed some people with a few things, which means... My job here is done. :beams up: Tengo un gato en mi correo. .......FIESTA. Huelo una enchilada vieja. BYYY the way, the artists' clay-cutting wire and the brick of clay thing isn't random, it DOES have symbolism. Think about it. Just thought I'd throw that out there... 


	3. Not enough to feed the hungry

**The Taste Of Ink**  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: If you don't like it, close your mind. You're letting flies in.

* * *

Chapter Three: Not enough to feed the hungry

* * *

Glancing around my apartment, I check one last time to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, unlikely as that is. I don't really have a flair for dramatics, my victims usually take care of that part, so preparing to kill someone is a fairly simple ordeal for me. Dress all in dark colors, fasten katana securely to waist, grab car keys, and you've got instant Battousai. It's too easy, like some kind of screwed up TV-meal, but the ones that clog your arteries and eventually kill you; of course, when it's me, the death isn't eventual, but that's beside the point. Anyone could do it, really. Not that I'd advise that, but still.  
  
I've been doing this for years, disturbing as that may seem. It's not the type of thing you dabble in, obviously. Once you start, you don't just set down your weapons one day and tell your boss that you're quitting. Unfortunately, life just doesn't work that way, as much as everyone wishes it would. I can't describe how many lives I've seen wasted, including my own, by getting trapped in a job.  
  
The basic layout of a human life goes a little something like this: You're born. You spend all too few years as a carefree, innocent child, then you become a teenager. Suddenly, you become the servant of your hormones and your parents decide to run your life. You spend several hellish years busting your ass to get good grades and get into a decent college. In college, you spend four more years, give or take a few, putting yourself through more pain to get top grades there. After you graduate, you put your degree to work and get a good, high paying job. You're a slave to that job until you retire, at which time you're too goddamn old to partake in the world's many splendors. Beautiful. Just fucking lovely.  
  
I heard somewhere that if you started working for McDonald's (would you like fries with that heaping plate of stupidity?) at the age of sixteen and work every other weekend until you're twenty, and you put all of your earnings into a bank account, that when you retire, you'll have a million dollars. It's hard to comprehend how that could ever work out right, but I suppose that it's possible in theory. Most things are. It's funny how the world works, isn't it?  
  
The point of all of this? Human beings spend their lives planning their future, or having it planned for them. They fail to factor in inevitable failures, disappointments, unforseen opportunities, mistakes, and other small things such as, say... death. Things like that.   
  
The vast majority of the world needs a good smash on the back of the head with a baseball bat. At least that's my less-than-humble opinion. Maybe after they stop seeing stars, they'll realize what incredible dumbasses they've been and continue to be. Society is only getting worse, as I see it.  
  
I sigh as I put my key in the ignition of the new Lamborghini Diablo that I just recently bought myself. At least there's something good about the way I live. I don't hoard all my money until I die. Then again, I have no reason to. I can afford to buy expensive things, such as three hundred thousand dollar cars, and still have plenty to live off of until I get my next payment. After all, assassins don't exactly have to pay taxes.  
  
This routine is getting monotonous. Work, drive, kill, get paid. It's no way to live life, no mistake. But with no friends besides the voices on television, which I don't watch all that often, it's not as if I have anything else to do. It's too dangerous to have friends when you're an assassin. Any ties you have can be used against you, severed to leave you devastated, though I have to wonder what I'd do in a situation like that. I can't picture myself shedding tears for a fallen comrade, I'm too practical for that. Everyone dies, it's inevitable. And it's not as if the thought of death is frightening to me. Quite the contrary, sometimes I felt the urge to kill myself out of sheer curiosity, just to find out what happens when your life is extinguished. The only thing that stops me is my hatred of suicide. Weakness is something I refuse to tolerate.  
  
I know this city as well as anywhere I've ever lived, so I don't pay much attention to the road in front of me. I was going to be murdering a man who is the head of a corporation that is supposedly corrupt, as if my organization isn't. Our only purpose is to murder people, for Christsakes, how much more corrupt can you get?  
  
It isn't for me to decide. So far in life, I've been along for the ride. There isn't much incentive for me to put effort into anything, so I just go with what I'm handed and do what's needed to get the job done, it's as simple as that. No extraordinary effort, but everything is completed satisfactorily. What a fucking boring life.

* * *

"For God's sake, please don't kill me!"  
  
I let out a chuckle at the pleading words of the man who's kneeling before me. It's pathetic, really, but I'm used to it by now. See what I mean when I say the victims take care of the dramatics? It's like a bloody stage production, but one that's so fucked up that no one would want to see it.  
  
Sometimes, when I used to associate with people, they would ask me how a certain movie or book ended. I would always reply with "Everyone dies," even though in only one book I've read does everyone actually meet their demise (that being Arthur C. Clarke's 'Childhood's End'). My life is like those movies and books now. The only difference is that, in my life, everyone does die. It's ironic, in a way, but I generally just see it as rather amusing.  
  
"You'll go to Hell if you kill me." This one isn't doing a very good job of begging/threatening his way out of this. I laugh outright as he trembles.  
  
"One: I don't believe in God. Two: I don't believe in Hell. Three: You're a worthless, sniveling, waste of human flesh. Now, give me a reason that I shouldn't kill you."  
  
He says nothing.   
  
"I'll take that to mean 'Yes, go ahead and kill me, for I've realized my own uselessness and I'd like to stop being a hindrance to the world.'"  
  
It's too bad, really. I would have liked to hear his reasoning. My katana does a swift, neat job of splitting his head in two, just as it looks as if he might be about to say something. Oh well. We can't all be winners, now can we? I frown down at my clothing; I've gotten blood on myself again. It's not that I mind the blood, but it's a bitch to get out of fabric, and somehow my clothes never feel quite as clean the next time I wear them. I suppose it's just another sacrifice that I have to make to my job. I always get blood on my clothes.

* * *

Later on in the night, maybe it's about one in the morning, and I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling through the darkness. I really do need a hobby or something, at least for when I can't sleep like this. Maybe it's for the best. I probably could use the time to think things out.  
  
Do I really want to be an assassin anymore? Is it still worth it? I came into this with all kinds of fanciful ideals of how I was going to make a difference, change the world, which I quickly learned was complete bullshit. This feeling, it's not guilt, at least I don't think so. I think... I think it's boredom.   
  
So if I'm bored, what can I do about it? I'm not the type to sit around putting together model cars, or painting pictures, or some kind of crap like that, so there isn't much that I can think of. Perhaps I'll just drink myself into oblivion every night. While tempting, that doesn't seem the best of plans.   
  
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I decide to go work on the Kamiya case again. At the very least, I can look through all those photographs again, if just to get ideas. It's been a long time since I've been inspired. Looks like I've just found my hobby. Sick, isn't it?  
  
Just as I sit down at the kitchen table, with several packets worth of documentation ready to be spread out in front of me, my phone rings. Because it's so early in the morning, I forget to be surprised that someone is trying to contact me on my home phone, and simply answer.  
  
"Hello? Mr. Himura?"  
  
"Yes, this is he." Who the hell else would be picking up the phone at my own apartment? "May I ask who's calling at," I glace at the clock. "One twenty-eight in the morning?"  
  
"This is Kamiya Kaoru," she sounds sleepy. "I'm so sorry for waking you."  
  
I sigh quietly; what the fuck can she possibly want? "No, it's no problem, I wasn't asleep."  
  
"Oh." There's a long pause. "You got the information?"  
  
"Yes." This is becoming very tedious.  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"It's very... interesting."   
  
"You know... I didn't kill them."  
  
...what?

* * *

A/N: Damn, I should be getting more sleep. It's 11.24 pm. Why am I so stupid?? Ah well... when I don't sleep, I don't have to dream, and I get to listen to the Rubber Room on WEBN and hear the kickass new rock. Plus I write weird fanfiction. So it's all good. I think I have a plan for this story, I really do... By the way, in case you haven't figured it out "The Taste of Ink" is a song by The Used, and the chapter titles are all single lines from the song. If you think about it, the titles really do have relevance to each chapter. Just... think like a crazy person, and it makes more sense. In fact, the whole frelling story makes more sense if you're psycho... that explains a lot about myself...  
  
OH! And Bando-chan, you needs to be calling me. I miss you! :whines: My IQ drops a little bit more every day I don't get to talk to you (Just look at my grammar Oo;) :dances!: I got Sugarcult's new CD! You want I should burn it for you?


	4. I'm tired and I've felt it for a while n...

**The Taste Of Ink**  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: I never really wanted you to see the screwed up side of me that I keep locked inside of me so deep.

* * *

Chapter Four: I'm tired and I've felt it for a while now

* * *

"Excuse me?" Am I hearing this right?  
  
"I didn't kill them." Yes, I am.  
  
"Then why the HELL are you saying you did?" I knew there was a reason that I've had no luck thinking of any reason whatsoever that she would have to kill those people. At least that makes me feel better, if only a little in the light of recent revelations.  
  
"Because I am honor-bound to do so."   
  
There's a long, awkward silence in which I try to comprehend her insanity. Sure, honor's all good and well, but this is her own life that she's putting on the line here. No way the American justice system, as godawful as it is, will let a serial killer like this escape the death penalty. It's not that I haven't seen my clients get harsh sentences before, but goddamn I hate to lose.   
  
I'm trying to piece this together. "So... what you're saying is that you're actually innocent, but you are going to let yourself go through court as if you weren't, and I have to convince the jury that you're not." That doesn't make any sense now that the words have left my mouth. Dammit, I hate it when that happens.  
  
"Precisely." I guess it made enough sense to her.  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Exactly."

* * *

The conversation just went downhill from there. Lying in bed once more, I feel like I don't know up from down anymore. All of this stress is going straight to my head; I need a vacation. At the thought, I indulge myself in a sarcastic smirk. I haven't had a vacation in, well, ever. I've seen the world, and it was only so-so. There's no reason for me to go slack off on some remote island or whatever it is that people of my wealth do when they take time off from work. That makes me wonder, am I even allowed to take time off work? I never cared, so I never asked, but the idea is interesting. It seems as though assassination is a job where I'm completely at my superior's will and whim. Now that I think about it, I've always lived as if I'm on a short leash. That kind of sucks. Once again, I ponder over what I've gotten myself so deeply into.  
  
I don't like to think this much at times like these, but my mind won't fucking shut up. This always happens to me. The one time I don't want to deliberate over myself, or the meaning of life, or whatever I happen to have on my mind, as opposed to all the times that I actually do want to think about it, I can't stop thinking. And it's so much thinking that I'm confusing myself. That's it. I'm not going to put myself through this torture.  
  
Ignoring the fact that I should turn on a light to be able to see properly, I get back out of bed and walk to the bathroom, shoulders slumping tiredly. Assassins need sleep like everyone else, right? Even the neurotic ones? Right. The medicine cabinet in my bathroom is well stocked, even though I don't like to take medication. I don't enjoy the idea of ingesting anything that fucks with my system, it's just not natural. But this is one of those desperate-times-desperate-measures moments, so I'm going to pop some sleeping pills. Three ought to do the trick. Tomorrow's Saturday, so I don't have to go to work, even though I usually do anyhow.   
  
By the time I reach my bed, I'm stumbling through the darkness. All I can think is, 'Shit, that stuff's more powerful than I thought.' It doesn't really matter as I flop down on my bed, not bothering with sheets and blankets, and close my eyes heavily. I've never fallen asleep faster in my life.

* * *

Sleep can be powerful medicine, or a vicious taunt. You can either get too little, just enough, or too much. Get either too little or too much and you wake just as tired as you fell asleep, if not more so. It's rare to get just enough, and even more so for me than most people, so I don't really know what it feels like. This morning, however, I know how it feels to get too much sleep, and to be roused from that sleep by an insistent pounding on the front door.  
  
"Coming, coming," I shout hoarsely, my voice still sleep-laden. The knocking doesn't stop. "Goddamn it! Would you quit that already!"   
  
Silence. Beautiful, wonderful silence. Beautiful and wonderful enough for me to drop back down against my pillows and fall right back to sleep. About five minutes later, the knocking starts up again. This time, I bury my head under a large pillow and ignore it.  
  
"Himura!" That's a woman's voice. Oh well... she can wait, whoever she is. I'm already well on my way to being fast asleep. "Himura!" Fuck her anyhow, damn woman. Can't she understand that I'm trying to sleep here? "Goddamn you, Himura! Get your sorry ass over here and answer the fucking door!"   
  
THAT got my attention. I don't even know any women who would be coming to my apartment, much less know where it is, and one who would resort to that language certainly wanted something. What that something is, I haven't the faintest idea.  
  
Still yawning and dressed in the clothes I'd fallen asleep in the previous night, which happen to be a pair of grey cotton "lounge pants" (I don't think I've ever lounged in my life) and a navy blue long-sleeved shirt, I yank the door open with a glare. Much to my surprise, I'm met face-to-face by one Kamiya Kaoru, who looks as if she's on her way to some business function.   
  
"Do you always dress like that?" Is the first thing that comes out of my mouth, unintelligent as it may be.  
  
"No," she says sharply. "Do you?"  
  
"Touché," I mutter as I open the door wider. I can't keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice as I say, "Please, come in."  
  
Now it's her turn to glare. Fairly impressive, I must admit, though doubtlessly much less intimidating than my "Battousai-glare." She brushes past me quite rudely and lets herself into my living room, where she promptly sits down on my black, leather couch.  
  
"Be gentle on the leather," I mention offhandedly.  
  
"I'm not a child, Himura-san," she says coolly. '-San,' is it? I haven't heard that in a while. I'm not sure whether I like it or not. Sometimes I like to think that I left Himura-san behind in Japan, although I know that I'm only fooling myself.   
  
"A thousand apologies, Kamiya-san." I stress the '-san.' This woman is going to hate me by the time we're done with all of this.  
  
To my great and utter surprise, she smiles. Alright, so she's not normal. I should have known that from the start, I suppose.  
  
"What brings you here?" My curiosity gets the better of me. "More importantly, how did you find me here?"  
  
"It was easy enough to find you," she states as if it's an everyday occurrence for a woman to practically knock her lawyer's door down at... what time is it? Oh, at twelve fifty-three in the afternoon. Point: Kamiya. "I just had to ask that receptionist of yours. By the way, she's extremely annoying. Perhaps you should consider firing her."  
  
I merely raise an eyebrow at her; so far, she's not so bad. "She's just gotten herself fired by giving out my home address without my permission."  
  
"Oh good," she says quickly. Strange, this girl didn't seem at all vindictive the first time I met her. Then again, she didn't seem like the type who would allow herself to be tried for murders that she didn't commit. This world is chock-full of strange twists and turns. Sometimes I swear it's just to keep me on my toes. Either that or to piss me off.  
  
"Now, why are you here?" Let's just be blunt and to-the-point, shall we? I'm not in the mood to play mind games or any of that shit.  
  
"I had the distinct feeling that you were going to need to talk to me about my case."  
  
"How very astute of you." All of my muttering doesn't appear to please her, although I fail to see how that's my problem.  
  
"You underestimate me, you know."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"I'm not as stupid as you seem to think."  
  
"Alright, alright." I just can't find it in me to muster up the energy to argue. "Now... I'm still trying to figure out... what the hell is all of this about? I don't understand why you're willing to take the fall for these murders."  
  
"I don't know if you can understand... Battousai..."  
  
"How... how do you know that?" So much for playing it cool. I'm silently damning myself.   
  
"I hear your name constantly," she says in a low tone. "My younger brother practically idolizes you. I wish he'd never gotten caught up in this mess..." She trails off.  
  
"Whoa, hang on a second there. Back up and tell me the rest of this story." I feel like I'm almost genuinely interested, and perhaps even slightly... sympathetic? Is that possible? "I need to know how he heard of me and if I'm in deep shit or not." Should I be watching my language? No, I'm not going to change just because I'm in the presence of a "lady." There are no real ladies in the world we're living in.  
  
"My younger brother goes by the name Myojin Yahiko, mostly because I think he originally wanted to protect me. Either that or I embarrass him. I hope it's the former." Her eyes have lost the brightness they possessed while she was verbally sparring with me. "At the age of ten, he got involved with a gang in Japan. Our parents died when he was nine, which might be part of the reason, I just don't know. Whatever the case, he got too far into the mess by the time he was eleven, so I moved us here. He's thirteen now. Somehow, the move did him worse than better, and he threw himself wholly into gang activities. You have quite a name in the underground. No one knows you by Himura Kenshin, obviously, but Hitokiri Battousai is practically been apotheosized."  
  
"Hitokiri Battousai?" I have to admit, it has a nice ring to it. "This is insane."  
  
"A lot of those people are. I should know, I met more gangsters with psychological problems than I care to remember. What it comes down to is this: My brother got completely sucked in, misled to the point of insanity himself. Those people, those thirty-seven bodies you've seen in the pictures I sent you... he killed them."  
  
Watching her closely, I wait for her to start crying. She doesn't. That's good, for me at least. I don't know the first thing about comforting people, which is what happens when you spend your life not caring in the least about anyone around you. Things happen that way sometimes.  
  
"So you're going to take this on by yourself, because you want to spare your younger brother?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It's honorable, I'll admit. Stupid, but honorable." The little bastard gets everything he deserves, I should think. The world needs to learn to take responsibility for its actions. If you kill someone, there's going to be a consequence, and you should take it and not complain. But everyone insists on pointing fingers, placing the blame on someone else. Just further proof that this world is full of cowards.  
  
"You look terrible," she says, suddenly changing topics. I look up at her with a blank expression. "Didn't you get any sleep last night?"  
  
Does she actually... care? "Yes, though you interrupted it when you tried to forcibly enter my apartment."  
  
"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "But it's just that, now that I've gotten tangled up in this murder case, I... well... I'm afraid. For my brother, mostly, but for myself as well. Do you know what it's like in the gang organization of this city?"  
  
I nod; I know only too well. After all, I've killed enough of them.   
  
"Then you know that it's likely that I'll be targeted as the next murder victim, just to get me to keep my mouth shut, no matter what Yahiko tells them."  
  
"Yes. I know."  
  
"What do you suggest I do about it?"  
  
Anyway I look at it, the situation isn't good. The last thing I want is my client dying on me. With the client dead, I don't get paid, and I extremely dislike working, especially as hard as I've been working on this case, without pay.  
  
"I suppose... You can stay here." What am I saying? Did I just say that out loud? Oh shit. "I have an extra room." I meant to say that, I swear.  
  
At first, I expect her to decline. I can tell just by looking at her that Kamiya Kaoru is a very proud person. But these are extenuating circumstances, any common idiot would be able to understand that. So, for the first time ever, I have a houseguest. Or, rather, apartment-guest.

* * *

A/N: Bloody hell. I kept telling myself: "This time, I'm going to bed at 11. Promptly at 11." What time is it? 11.37. That 37 minutes of sleep I could have had would have mad a WORLD of difference, I'm telling you. I just couldn't stop writing. This story just seems to be working itself out so well. It's actually pretty fun to write, despite the fact that it's kind of depressing to reflect on how stupid the world generally is. Oh well. Bedtime for me. Man I wish it was summer again... life is so much easier when you can stay up until 6 AM and then sleep until... I dunno... 11 AM. I don't need that much sleep... Just... more than I get for school... I swear they're trying to kill me off early by depriving me of food and sleep...

By the way... this is completely random, but yeah... has anyone heard the song "So Cold" by Breaking Benjamin? If you haven't, and you like rock, get it, it's amazing. The video is just... wow... anyhow. That's all.

OH WAIT! No it's not! I have to say: I have this story completely finished, so I HOPE to be updating every one to two days. There are only ten chapters, sorry about that, but I had to end where I thought was appropriate. And before anyone asks, I am saying **nothing **about anything that happens next. :grin:


	5. In this sea of lonely

**The Taste Of Ink**  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing hurts when no one's real.

* * *

Chapter Five: In this sea of lonely

* * *

Sitting at my kitchen table, I still can't believe I said that. The last thing I want is some perfectionist girl living in my apartment, telling me how I should be, and disrupting the overall sad, pathetic-ness of my schedule. Time to lay down some ground rules. I look up from my lunch, which happens to be a turkey sandwich, to find her staring across the table at me. Goddamn that's annoying. I glare at her, and she merely raises an eyebrow expectantly.  
  
"We need to have some sort of agreement here." At least I'm not going to try to force her to go home; I don't go back on my word, even when I don't like what I said. This is what I get for opening my mouth and saying whatever came to mind. This must be karma or something. I probably deserve this.  
  
"I can understand that." It's nice that she's not stupid, that makes this a little bit easier.  
  
"Okay, first off, never, ever wake me up again." Alright, so I'm still bitter about that. She nods. "I work odd hours, and you'll have to adjust to that. I don't make regular meals, so for the most part you'll be on your own. Stay out of the liquor. Don't ever answer the door or the phone. I almost never watch TV, so you can watch whatever you want whenever you want. I'd prefer that you only use my computer in emergency situations. My bedroom and bathroom are off-limits; you'll have your own. Any questions?"  
  
"None whatsoever."  
  
I blink once; that went well. Half of me expected her to argue about the restrictions I put on her, though it's more than fair. After all, she is in my house. It seems that she understands that. Perhaps I've found someone that I can have an intelligent conversation with. It's been a very long time since I've done that.  
  
Do I miss people? No, not really. The majority of the Earth's population are here just to be the banes of my existence, I'm quite sure. Insipidity and ignorance run rampant, so I'm fairly content to keep to myself. Or, I think I am. I don't really think about it much.

* * *

Five in the damn morning. On a Sunday. Why am I doing this? I could just let Kamiya be convicted and watch as the judge serves her the a death sentence on the silver platter provided by the frightened and disturbed public. But something other than my detestation of loss forces me to work on this case until strange hours of the morning on my days off. A large yawn from behind me tells me that I'm not the only one up.  
  
"What the hell are you doing out of bed at this time of the morning?" I don't bother to look at her as I speak. Momentarily, I've let myself be distracted by the photos of her younger brother's victims. That a thirteen-year-old did this is still hard to comprehend. I'm fairly certain that any normal boy that age is unable to do that, but, then again, I can't be entirely sure. I got mixed up in this whole assassination business when I was fourteen, but somehow I've always viewed myself as a special case. Most children don't begin learning kenjutsu at age seven, at least not anymore. Maybe at one point in time, long ago in history.   
  
"I don't sleep well anymore." Well that's understandable. Not that I'll tell her that aloud.  
  
Pulling a chair around the table, she sits down next to me, staring down at the pictures. For the sister of the boy that committed these crimes, she takes it awfully well, again, something I will never tell her. I generally wouldn't think that just any person would be able to look at these photos; she does have strength of character, or stomach, I'm not sure which.   
  
"Why do you stare like that?" Her question catches me slightly off-guard. "What's so fascinating about those pictures?" Ah, so that's why she can gaze at them, is it? She wants to know what it is that I'm seeing.  
  
I glance at her. Can she be serious? From the expression on her face, she is. I don't like it when people ask me too many questions, I prefer to be the one doing the asking. For a moment, I consider whether to answer her or not. I decide on "not."  
  
"I see," is all she says. It's nice that she doesn't argue, I'll give that to her. She leans over to look more closely at the photos. "This one." She lays a slender finger on it. "How was it done?"  
  
This gets my attention. That kind of question I can and will answer. "He was strangled with a piano wire." It's more than strange that the one picture that caught her eye is the very same that I was so interested in. "Most likely, your brother tied the wire to two wooden blocks. It strangled this man and slit his throat simultaneously."  
  
I can't read her face. Usually I can tell what a person is thinking by the expression in their eyes, but her emotions are frustratingly difficult to discern. Does she do that on purpose? I stop myself from asking her that very question.  
  
"How do you feel about all of this?" I wave my hand briefly over the photographs. For the first time in a long time, I genuinely want to know. Generally, human emotion matters very little to me, but something about her makes me curious. I just have to keep in mind that curiosity shot the hired assassin, if you'll excuse my creative licensing.  
  
Gazing down at the pictures, she shakes her head. What the hell is that supposed to mean? I wait, somewhat patiently, for her to speak; she seems to be working the words out in her head.  
  
"I don't know." Now that's interesting. "I used to think it was horrible. But now, in light of all this, I just don't know. I'm sure you understand that when something like this happens, one goes through changes. I used to be happy with my life and job, but now I'm not so sure. Now... it doesn't seem like enough."  
  
She's coming down, is the first thought that hits me. That cloud of illusion, of comfort and security, that she used to live in is shattered, and she's beginning to see the world for what it really is. I can teach her, I think momentarily, I can show her. But I stop that train of thought. Why would I want to teach her about the world? Why would I even think that in the first place? Still, it's reassuring that there is one more human being that won't live in a fantasy world until death.

* * *

I hate people that pity themselves, absolutely cannot stand them. Those people that walk around feeling so sorry for themselves, telling themselves and everyone around them that their life is so hard, are the type that piss me off to no end. Point out something good in their existence, and they say "Oh, that's not for sure," or just find something else that's bad and ignore all the good. Those are the people that I just want to strangle with my bare hands.  
  
Pity is such a waste of human emotion, but self-pity is the worst.   
  
It's now seven sixteen in the morning, and Kaoru went to bed long ago. After a while, I start to zone out, ignore everything in front of me and go blank to my surroundings. I think it's a sort of meditation, almost, but no one who does it realizes that because they're too tired or too bored or too stoned. Whatever it is, I feel like I've completely left my body and am wheeling through the stars. It's not a bad feeling. So why is it that, at a time like this when I'm actually finding some inner peace, thoughts of the Kamiya girl enter my head? Maybe it was all the contemplation I was doing on self-pity while I was supposedly working on her case. The thing is, Kamiya doesn't seem to have any self-pity. She's strong for her brother, but she doesn't mourn for the loss that she will have to accept whether she wins or loses this case. It's somewhat interesting to me, because one would expect any person in her place to be wallowing in misery for their poor, "stolen" life, but she isn't. This girl is only twenty-four, she has a whole life in front of her, she's willing to throw it all away for her little brother, and she doesn't say a word about it. The most she's done is admit her fear.  
  
Fear, to me, is a natural human instinct, and is what protects us from danger. To be afraid is to be real, in a way. It's when you let the fear take over your life that it becomes something that is truly bad. If someone is fearless, then they are stupid. When you don't recognize fear, then you have no caution, and you're easily susceptible to injury or death. I cannot say that I am without fear, so I don't hold that against her. What I fear may be vastly different, but to each his own, correct?  
  
"You should be asleep by now," I murmur, without turning around, as Kaoru walks quietly into the kitchen.  
  
"So should you," she says through a yawn.  
  
"It's not your responsibility to tell me when I should or should not go to bed." I'm grateful that she cares, I guess, but it's damned annoying.  
  
Stifling another yawn, she sits heavily in the chair that's still by my side. A smile crosses her face, presumably because she sees that I've gotten nothing done. You'd think that she'd be appreciative of all the work I've previously done on her case, but she's acting like I'm shirking here. Nice, really nice; I snort derisively.  
  
"Are you always this disagreeable when you're tired?"  
  
I glare at her. "I'm always like this, and I'm not tired."  
  
"Bullshit." My eyes open wider. Did she just dare to contradict me? "I can see it in your eyes." She did! Who the fuck does she think she is? "Go to bed, Himura-san... can I just call you Kenshin?"   
  
I nod wearily; anything to get her to shut up. It's much simpler anyhow. Suddenly she's singing, in a soft but clear voice. My eyes close of their own accord and I allow myself to listen, just this one time. After a moment I stop her.  
  
"Wait. Sing that part again." Intriguing...  
  
"Roots so deep in history, a clever web of lies. No one gets away, no one tries. Why pray to the light, when darkness conceives it?"   
  
Very intriguing. Had I not just heard her sing that, I would have considered her the type to sing happy, uplifting songs, or maybe those fucking sappy romance ones. But this, this is real. Within an instant, my image of her is completely changed. There is a lot of potential in this woman. For what, I can't be entirely sure yet. But maybe, just maybe, it's worth spending the time to find out.

* * *

A/N: It's 1.15 in the morning on a Sunday. Lovely. The cicadas should be out anytime soon... I'm not looking forward to that... I'm kind of confused about what's going on in this chapter, but I feel pretty sick, and my throat REALLY hurts, so I'm really just... blehhhh. Like that. By the way, the song Kaoru sings in this chapter is "New Day's Dawn" by Hyde. That song fucking rocks.


	6. The taste of ink is getting old

**The Taste Of Ink**  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: My hand's around your throat and I think I hate you. We made the same mistakes.

* * *

Chapter Six: The taste of ink is getting old

* * *

Finally, at nine in the morning, I drag myself off to bed, having sent Kaoru away to her own room at seven thirty. I'm still not really tired, but after a while, even I get tired of focusing on one thing for so long.   
  
So here I am again, gazing blankly at the ceiling above my bed. It's getting really dirty, I note absently, maybe I'll clean it tomorrow. With all the staring that I do, you'd think that I would have a lot more about life figured out than I currently do. As they say, the only things that are certain are death and taxes. No wait. I don't pay any tax on the money I make for assassination. So the only thing that is certain is death. Smiling grimly at the crack above my head, I decide that I like the idea of that. I frown, though, as I actually realize that there's a crack in my ceiling; there's another thing I have to fix. Oh well, I'll leave it for tomorrow.  
  
As I close my eyes, somehow an unbidden thought comes to me. Dimly, I think that it would be nice if Kaoru were in my room to sing me to sleep, but I'm not sure where that came from, because I most certainly do not wish that to be the truth; it makes it sound as if I'm going soft, which is definitely not something that I want to happen. Lack of sleep will do that to you, I guess, even though I've never had the problem before. Rolling over on my side with a sigh, I ignore my mind and slip off into slumber.

* * *

The first thing I smell when I wake is something burning. Frantically, I rack my brain to think of anything that I might have left running the night before that could be setting my apartment on fire before I remember that Kaoru is living with me now.   
  
Apparently she can't cook.  
  
I rush out into the kitchen to salvage my cookware before it catches fire. My disheveled appearance is completely forgotten as I whisk the frying pan off the stove and into the sink where it can't do any more damage. Turning around, I find Kaoru staring at me, mouth agape.  
  
'What the...? Oh.' I'm standing in front of her wearing nothing but a pair of black silk boxers that are slung low around my hips, my long hair down around my shoulders. It's her fault really, for almost burning down the whole damn kitchen.   
  
"Don't touch anything that can be potentially dangerous," is all I say before walking back into my room to put on clothing.  
  
Upon returning, she hasn't moved at all, and is standing there with a sheepish expression on her face. I look at her pointedly.  
  
"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to wake you up or almost burn your house down," she says, her gaze fixed on the floor. "I guess there are some things that I just shouldn't mess with."  
  
"What exactly was that supposed to be in that pan, anyhow?" I can't help but be curious.  
  
"Eggs."  
  
"You have got to be shitting me." Okay, the girl can't even scramble eggs. That's just sad, really.  
  
"Alright then, it was a fancy omelette," she quips. "Would that make it any better that I almost set your entire kitchen on fire?"  
  
"Either way you look at it, my kitchen would have been on fire," I shrug.  
  
She heaves a huge sigh and practically falls into a chair at the kitchen table. This really seems to be bothering her; have I found something that she's insecure about? It's nice to know that she isn't completely optimistic and self-confident. Optimism is another one of those things that annoys me.   
  
Perhaps I'm contradicting myself with that sentiment.   
  
'I hate people that pity themselves, absolutely cannot stand them. Those people that walk around feeling so sorry for themselves, telling themselves and everyone around them that their life is so hard, are the type that piss me off to no end. Point out something good in their existence, and they say "Oh, that's not for sure," or just find something else that's bad and ignore all the good. Those are the people that I just want to strangle with my bare hands.'  
  
That makes it sound as though I'd rather see people that are optimistic. But that's not the way I am. All I really want is for people to understand reality, even though I know it's asking too much. I'm neither optimistic or pessimistic, as I see it, I just know the difference between a dream and what's real. I think that, for the most part, I accept a situation as it is and deal with it accordingly.   
  
Kaoru is watching me, I realize. Did I do that whole "zoning out" thing again? It's more than likely. That happens to me a lot, mostly when I'm thinking; I can't really help it. Time to play it off; I start to fix breakfast for both of us. Wisely, the girl doesn't say anything. It's pleasing to me to find that she knows when to keep her mouth shut. People with that particular talent are much easier for me to tolerate.  
  
She doesn't know how lucky she is, does she? Or maybe she does, it's hard to tell. For once in my life, I've found someone that isn't easy for me to read. It's both annoying and concerning, interesting and agitating at the same time. I still don't know what I was thinking when I invited her to stay here, but somehow I think it was to teach me something. I just don't know what that is yet. Everything in life happens for a reason, be it a good one or not. To live is to learn, whether you want to or not. It's the application of what is learned that most people don't understand.  
  
I set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Kaoru and take the seat across from her, my own plate in my hand. She thanks me in a quiet voice and starts eating slowly; there seems to be something on her mind, and I almost ask her about it, but decide otherwise. After a moment, she speaks of her own accord.  
  
"Sometimes, I think that there was nothing that I could have done to stop Yahiko from killing those people," she almost whispers, her gaze fixed on her plate. "It's as if I knew all along that no matter what I did, something terrible was going to happen. I didn't know it would be this terrible."  
  
I consider this for a moment. "If there was nothing you could do to stop it, why'd you try?"  
  
Her eyes are suddenly fixed on mine, and I wonder fleetingly if I offended her. "I don't know why I did," she says after a few seconds of silence. "It all seems so pointless now."  
  
"You should have made him take responsibility for his actions," I finally voice my opinion.  
  
"I know that, but he's my brother," she says that as if it should explain everything. I don't understand. "You've never loved anyone, have you?"  
  
It's none of her business; I stare at her without expression. The look she gives me in return tells me that she feels sorry for me. Am I missing out on that much by not being in love? I've never viewed it as any great thing.  
  
"Why are you taking the blame for his murders?" I'll ask her outright.  
  
"He's got a whole life to life; he's still a child. And if I hadn't done this, there would be a good chance that he would be killed. I don't want him to die alone."  
  
"Kaoru," I say softly. She looks up in surprise; this is the first time I've called her by her first name. "Everything here dies alone."  
  
And it's true. There is no other way to die but by yourself. No one is going to hold your hand as you slip away into darkness, you won't feel it. You cannot be followed into death, and so you're alone. It's not really a frightening thought to someone who's been alone for most of their life, but I suppose for other people it's a scary proposition.   
  
Kaoru looks at me in confusion. Doesn't she understand? Maybe she's never thought about it; she has had a busy life, in accordance with all the documents and papers and files I've read about her. If I'd done all the things she has, I wouldn't have all this figured out, either.  
  
"Explain that to me." She wants to learn?  
  
After a brief moment of thought, I acquiesce and begin to reveal the reasoning behind my words. To her credit, she listens raptly and looks as if she understands. There may just be more to Kamiya Kaoru than I first realized. When I decided that I didn't want to teach her about the world, perhaps I was wrong. It was becoming clear to me that I quite possibly have found myself a new hobby. She's like a child in her naivety, but she's more mature than most people I've spoken with in my life. I don't like impressing my ideas on people as if there were no other theories in the world, I believe that people should make their own choices as to the nature of life, whether I agree with the ideas or not. But Kaoru studied philosophy in college, so I have a feeling that she'll be interesting to teach. I can't believe I'm going to do this.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, I don't have much to say. Actually, I don't have anything to say at all. I have to go do laundry...  
  
I lied, I do have something to say. The lines "If there was nothing you could do to stop it, why'd you try" and "Everything here dies alone." are from the song The Crowing by Coheed & Cambria (off their Cd In Keeping Secrets Of Silent Earth: 3). Find the song, listen to it, appreciate it. It's brilliant. Their CDs are worth the money; you won't find lyrics that good from any artists besides some of the better jrock artists. By the way... SCHOOL'S OFFICIALLY OUT!!!! PARTY AT MY HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!


	7. Each day gets more and more like the las...

**The Taste Of Ink**  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: Looking back at you I can see that I never really got it right.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Each day gets more and more like the last day

* * *

Ceiling again. Isn't it just fucking glorious? At least I've fixed the crack and restored my ceiling to it's white, shining beauty, if such a thing as a ceiling actually can be beautiful. It can't, but I can lie. Gods can I lie.   
  
It gets very tiring to feel and think the same things day after day, with no hope for a change in routine. Again: I need a life. I am still no farther in the Kamiya case; it seems to be a dead end. I don't really know what I'm going to do about it, probably just lose. Somehow, I'm beginning to feel like I don't care anymore.  
  
'Fuck this,' I finally decide, jumping up out of bed. Back to the trusty sleeping pills.  
  
As I toss two of them down my throat, I wonder if I'm becoming addicted. This is only the second time I've taken them in a long time, so I guess I'm not. It doesn't really matter anyhow. I have to get some sleep, tomorrow is going to be a very stressful day at work.  
  
Sometimes, I wish I could just have normal dreams like a normal person. (Again, what is normal? But that's beside the point.) Or even completely weird, tripped out, LSD-reminiscent visions that completely boggle the mind. Just as long as I could have some reprieve from reality. Falling organs is unrealistic, yes, but not enough so to feel like I've stepped out of my daily life. At least when I take the sleeping pills, I don't have to worry about dreaming at all.

* * *

Kaoru greets me with a smile, a bowl of cereal, and a glass of orange juice in the morning. For a moment, I don't know what to say, because it seems overly cruel to tell her that I don't usually eat breakfast, so I don't say anything. I just sit down and start eating. It can't hurt, can it?  
  
Though it takes effort not to wrinkle my nose in distaste as I spoon the sugar coated, high-in-carbohydrates-and-fats-and-who-knows-what-else cereal into my mouth and chew it, much less swallow it whilst knowing what it's going to do to my body, I manage the task somehow. Just so that I don't upset the happy, smiling girl that's sitting across from me and eating her own breakfast. Dammit, I really am going soft, aren't I? Then again, it's no big deal to be kind every once in a while. I don't have to be a sarcastic, callous, son of a bitch all the time, do I?  
  
"What are you going to do while I'm at work?" I ask.  
  
She sighs before answering. "I don't know. Usually I'd be at my office by now, but they called me two days ago to tell me that 'my services are no longer required.' There's no use for someone who's been accused of thirty-seven counts of murder at an elitist company like that. I'm not planning on going anywhere far from here any time soon, just to be safe, so I'll probably make a quick run to the bookstore and better my intellect for the day."  
  
Briefly, I consider allowing her to come to work with me, but think better of it. There's going to be enough for me to do without her there, so her idea is best. Besides, I don't need her pestering me all day. At a second thought, that's unfair of me, because she really isn't a nuisance. Picturing her at my job brings an image to mind that's nothing more than her sitting quietly in a chair, reading a book, drawing, or doing whatever she can to be helpful. Still, it would be a headache to have her there, simply because I would feel as if I had to be in charge of her. And that bitch of a receptionist would drive me insane about Kaoru by the end of the day.

* * *

Is this what asphyxiation feels like? What it feels like to drown?   
  
I know I'm not literally suffocating and my lungs are devoid of the water that would kill me, but this feeling surely has to be the same. Maybe it's not so much the physical feeling as the mentality of it, the knowing that I'm failing and can't get out, much like drowning. This case is really getting to me.   
  
I'm sitting at my desk, suit jacket tossed haphazardly on the floor, tie loosened, and shirt sleeves rolled up to my elbows. To any onlooker I probably would seem completely calm and composed, the perfect picture of a man hard at work. But inside is a totally different story. With only two weeks until our first court appearance, I'm frantic.   
  
It's as if I'm in an icy sea, flailing my arms, kicking and screaming, while onlookers who see me but really don't watch indifferently from a nearby lifeboat that I just can't seem to reach. Now I know what it feels like to drown.   
  
'Fear death by water, indeed.' My thoughts are sarcastic as ever, they never give me a reprieve.   
  
"_Dayadhvam: I have heard the key  
Turn in the door once and turn once only  
We think of the key, each in his prison  
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison_"  
  
I stop suddenly. Where the hell did that come from? I am by no means the type that randomly quotes poetry, although to say that I'm not well read would be a lie. Sure, I enjoy Eliot as much as the next intellectual, but I don't generally make his work a part of my daily life.   
  
Somehow those verses stuck in my head. In a way, they apply so well to my current life; maybe my outburst makes more sense. I've always been in my own prison, but now more so than ever. Why? I'm not entirely sure. But the verse is depressingly true. Man creates his own prison, and confirms that prison by "hearing the turning of the key," that is, to long for and seek out freedom. I've been imprisoned for most of my life. The worst kind of captivity is that which is self-imposed, the kind that one is only too aware of, but cannot escape. It's as if I can see the key to unlock the door and let myself out, but it's just barely out of reach, and I don't really understand what it is.  
  
I'm not sure how, but I know the Kamiya case has something to do with my key. With every fiber of my being, I can sense that there is something different about this case. Exactly what it is, I'm completely unsure. Perhaps it's the challenge, or the way Kaoru is defending her little brother this way, but I don't really think that's all there is to it. There is something deeply profound about this that I've yet to uncover. I'm just hoping that with time Fate or Knowledge or Whatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-call-it will let me know just what the hell that is.

* * *

Tired. I'm so very tired. Not in the general sense of the word, though. Physically, I'm doing pretty well. I've consumed more sugar and caffeine than I typically care to ingest in one day, but it's not going to kill me. My tiredness is more of an overwhelming fatigue that's rooted deep within my soul and radiates from center outward to make my life a living hell. At least I don't have to kill anyone tonight. I don't think I have the energy.  
  
It's hard to say what it is that makes me so weary. Perhaps it's my tremendous hated of the world and the people living here that drags me down. Anyone who heard me say that would immediately recommend that I see a psychiatrist. I can just picture that:  
  
"So, what do you think your problem is?"  
  
"Well, every few nights, I go out and hack someone's head off. That's sort of a bummer, and a pain in the ass when it comes to laundry. Then, I go to work as a lawyer where I defend cases I don't need or want. I don't need my job, and I hate it, but I go anyhow. That one's a real bitch. Right now I'd really like to blow up the world, just because the people really piss me off. I'd have to say my real problem is with my mother though. Never knew her. Or my father either, for that matter. But ah well. It probably all is because of some strange underlying sexual tension. Funny how everything seems to work out that way, isn't it?"  
  
That would be interesting, to say the least. I don't really like Freudian analysis, it makes human beings sound even worse off than they already are.   
  
When I blink my eyes, realizing that I'm once again drifting off into my mind (you'd think it would be bad for an assassin to do that, wouldn't you?), I find that I'm standing in front of my apartment door. I hate it when I do that, go from one place to another without remembering anything in between. It's rather disconcerting, to put it mildly. Though I never really feel off-guard, I just don't like doing it. There has to be something wrong with me.  
  
Pushing the door open, I ignore the taunting of my mind and kick my shoes off. The door slamming behind me, I drag myself to the living room couch and fall down right where I am. Kaoru's pretty voice floats to my ears from where she's singing in her bedroom, but I fling an arm over my head and close my eyes, effectively shutting her out. Her voice is nice enough, I guess, but I am in no mood to listen to her right now.  
  
"Kenshin?" What on earth does she want?  
  
Not bothering to answer, I wait a minute and, surely enough, she pads softly into the room. I feel her eyes on me, but I keep mine shut. There's no way that I'm going to fall asleep, of course, but I can pretend, can't I? She simply makes an ambiguous humming noise and sits down by my head.  
  
Before I can respond or move, her hands are on my shoulders, rubbing firmly. There's no way to keep myself from arching my aching shoulders into her touch, it feels too good. This is a type of indulgence I've never experienced, and I'll be damned if I'm going to stop her now. I allow her to maneuver me, sit me up, so that she can knead her fingers into my back. Hell, if this makes her happy, I might as well enjoy it. She doesn't say a word, just silently works the tension out of my body. And, with nothing more than a smile, she leaves again.  
  
I lie back, wondering about what just went on. Normally, I don't like to be touched; it's just one of those strange quirks. Alright, maybe it's just downright weird, but I shun human contact. However, I just permitted Kaoru to massage my back. And I enjoyed it. What is this world coming to?  
  
Before I can answer myself, I hear her voice, soft but clear. "_Quando fiam ceu chelidon -- O swallow swallow..."_  
  
My eyes widen in shock, this coincidence is too great to be mere coincidence. I don't know I've spoken until the words leave my mouth. "When shall I be like the swallow..." 'O swallow swallow' is for the moment disregarded.  
  
"That I may cease to be silent." Her answer is fainter than her previous words.   
  
That Kaoru bears any resemblance to Philomela is something I didn't think about. Perhaps I should have. How long will she have to hold her tongue? Forever? One day longer? To her grave? Life is too uncertain.

* * *

A/N: Ah. The gloriousness of poetry. In case you don't know this already, references include "fear death by water," the four lines that speak of prison and the key, and "_Quando fiam ceu chelidon -- O swallow swallow_". All of them are taken from T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land." The poem is amazingly brilliant, and something I suggest everyone read. However, it's extremely difficult and sounds quite random if you don't take the time to analyze it, so... uh... yeah... I don't know, it's late and I'm on allergy medication, so I'm kind of losing my train of thought about halfway through my sentences. Anyhow, what was I saying? Oh yeah, Eliot. I just wanted to mention that while it may seem way too coincidental that Kenshin and Kaoru both reference the same poem, it really isn't. "The Waste Land" is one of the most influential poems of... well... ever... I've already set up Kaoru to be very well educated and intellectual, which makes it sensible that she'd have studied Eliot. And Kenshin... well... with the way I've written him in this story, "The Waste Land" is the type of thing he'd eat right up. (What's better for him to enjoy than a poem about the cultural decline of society? Besides, I'm not going to make him into some self-proclaimed prophet who just knows everything. He has to learn like everyone else, ne?) Anyhow, I just really love the poem, so I had to put it in here. It's nice to have a story that I can actually use some of this stuff in... Oh yeah! And if you don't know who Philomela is, either you're not a nerd like me or you aren't learning anything in your classes. Look up Greek mythology and Philomela if you have no clue what I'm talking about. Perhaps I should have explained the story behind that reference, but that sort of blows all the subtlety of the story to hell. So... yeah... uh... G'night!


	8. Still I can see it coming

**The Taste Of Ink**  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: Desperate panicked calls (The wind can't hear me) Muffled weak and small (The sand can't hear me) Pleading, groping hands (The truth can't hear me) Bleeding in the sand (Your heart can't hear me)

* * *

Chapter Eight: Still I can see it coming

* * *

Tilling my own grave to keep me level. Living each day in the shadows of monotony, waiting until it's my turn to die. Die to do what? To come back again? I don't believe in Hell, I really don't, and I'm fairly certain that I'm correct. There's too much incongruence in holy texts to believe any of that shit, so I think I'm on to something here. What other people put their faith in doesn't really make any difference to me. They're dumbfucks anyhow.  
  
Where am I? At work. Again. "At work" meaning that state of being at work, not actually in the office. It's four o' clock in the fucking morning, and I'm really starting to get tired of all of this. How am I going to make my case? No damn clue. The only thing I can think of is for her to plead insanity, and though someone of her intelligence is likely to be an excellent actress, there isn't a chance in hell that anyone is going to believe that Kamiya Kaoru is crazy.  
  
With that resounding disconcertion, I begin to rhythmically bang my head against the table, the sound of which actually is more resounding than anything else. The surprising part is that it doesn't really hurt, it just feels numb, like everything else. Slamming my head down a bit more forcefully, I become determined to at least make it painful. A good dose of reality would be nice right about now.  
  
As I raise my head to crack it down on the marble tabletop again, a pair of strong but gentle hands grasp me, one on each side of my face. Now that the regularity of my self-inflicted torture is broken, a splitting headache ravages my skull. I don't think I've ever felt more like a dumbass in my life. Soft fingers trail down my forehead, and I blink when the sensation stings.  
  
"You're bleeding," she says so quietly that I have to strain to hear her. "How hard were you hitting your head?"  
  
I shrug. "I don't know." It's nice to be able to feel something for once; it's been a long time. What I'm feeling right now is the light sweeping of her slender fingers around my injured skin. Her hands are cool against my feverish skin. I'm not sure why it's feverish, maybe lack of sleep is really getting to me, but it feels good, calming even.  
  
Kaoru looks at me pointedly, her eyes plainly asking what I want her to do.   
  
"Clean it for me." She nods, of course, ever willing to help, but when she moves away to get first aid supplies, I grab her by the wrist and pull her closer.  
  
Her eyes are no longer asking any definite question, just expressing overall curiosity as I take her chin in one hand. She isn't expectant, she isn't afraid, and she isn't moving away, but I can tell that she is unsure of what's going to happen. Gently, giving her the chance to escape, I tug on her chin, laying her lips against my torn forehead. Now she understands. I expect her to be shocked or disgusted, but she simply does as I ask, flicking her tongue out to lick the wound clean. Not a word is spoken, and I let my eyes fall closed to savor the feeling of her tongue on my burning skin, something akin to crushed velvet slid over fingers that have been rubbed raw for one reason or another. I know that this really doesn't constitute "cleaning," because the human mouth is a disgusting place, but I don't really care. This just feels good, though I'm not sure why.  
  
I don't want a relationship with her. I don't. It would only cause more trouble than it could ever possibly be worth. I don't want a woman, and I don't need people around me. But for the moment, this is okay, as deranged as it seems.

* * *

She went out shopping this afternoon, returning with bags full of books, music, movies, and clothes. I take no pleasure in shopping for recreation, it just reinforces the horrifically materialistic nature of today's society, so I left her to her own devices while I continued to work on her case. It's frustrating how little there is for me to work off here. Lying, while not unusual to encounter in the practice of law, is something that I find too risky to take part in. Besides, while the world is so very dishonest with itself and others, I prefer to speak the truth or nothing at all. I only lie when I have to.  
  
I'm lying on my bed when Kaoru knocks on my door. What am I doing? Nothing other than staring at the ceiling, of course.  
  
"It's open, come in." This had better be good.  
  
The door opens slowly, as if she's nervous about coming in my room. For the love of death, it's not as if I'm going to rape her! The very thought is disgusting, actually. Such forced contact is revolting to me.  
  
"I bought you some things," she says quietly, staring at her feet and shifting the bag she's holding from hand to hand, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.  
  
I raise an eyebrow curiously. This is odd, to say the least. Sitting up, I motion for her to take a seat next to me on the bed, which she accepts. In any case, she's not nervous anymore, though I'm not sure why she was in the first place. It doesn't really matter.  
  
Spilling the contents of the bag onto the bed, I'm surprised to find books and CDs. No one has ever dared buy me anything like this before (even though I don't receive very many gifts in the first place), presumably because they don't know what I like. I've made sure in life that I don't let anyone know who I am or what I like, and this girl has the audacity to buy me things that are rather personal. I glare at her, but she does nothing more than stare me in the eyes. Bravery is not something she lacks. Common sense, however, I'm beginning to wonder about.  
  
"Get out," is all I say. "Just... get out."  
  
With a sound of discontentment and disapproval, she storms out of the room and slams the door. Alright then. That was strange. All around, it was just... strange.  
  
Finally, I decide to look at what she bought me. Picking up a book, I read the title with surprise. Very interesting; the girl has taste. Beyond Good and Evil, and I see, as well, On the Genealogy of Morals. Nietzsche. I think I see some Faulkner in the mix, along with a few other existentialist writers. Fascinating that she would think of this for me. True, I've read most of these books already (as I've stated repeatedly, I have no life), but maybe she knows me better than I thought. That's disturbing. Hopefully, she's just an overzealous psychology and philosophy student, as the last thing I want to happen is for her to know who I really am.   
  
Her choices in music for me are worrying, as well. I don't really listen to music often, so I haven't heard of these bands, or groups, or people, or whatever they are, but reading the titles is enough to make me wonder just how well she knows my true nature. I rip the plastic off one CD and pull the lyrics out of the jewel case. Delerium, the group's called; the disc is entitled "Karma." I'm not sure what to think, I'm really not. One group of words from a song called "Duende" catches my eye.  
  
The disc is quickly slipped into my stereo. This may just be worth listening to.   
  
_"Razor fingers cling.... the wind can't hear me... Piercing demons sing... the sand can't hear me... Twisting hollow Hell... the truth can't hear me."_  
  
The truth can't hear me. And that's the crux of it, isn't it? I want so badly for the world to realize what they're doing to themselves, yet it's impossible. Truth itself is so shrouded in darkness and twisted fantasy that it no longer knows what's real and what's illusion. Even the truth is a lie.

* * *

A/N: If you couldn't tell, I love Delerium, and "Duende" is one of my favorite songs. I also love Nietzsche's and Faulkner's works, and existentialism is important to me. If you're anyone, I suggest you get Delerium's CD "Karma," and if you're intelligent, I suggest you read Nietzsche and Faulkner. If you're stupid, don't bother, you'd be lost after the first sentences. Not that I'm calling any of you stupid. How am I supposed to know, anyway, ne?   
  
Other references:  
  
"Tilling my own grave to keep me level" - A Perfect Circle, "Weak and Powerless"  
  
I like music. Anyone that knows me would say I'm obsessive. But you can get a lot of good ideas from lyrics, if you know what to listen to. Rap and pop and all that shit, of course not, but if you find some good rock bands, alternative artists, and cultural music, you can learn a lot. I recently bought a CD called Celtic Spirit which simply kicks ass, and it proves that music doesn't have to have understandable lyrics (I don't know Gaelic...YET! ) or any lyrics at all to be inspirational. I only wish I didn't have to use the lyrics themselves to get my point across. But, as I know that almost no one is going to look up the things I've referenced, and this is a rant fic, I basically said "screw subtlety, I'm just going to spell it all out." Yeah, I'll shut up now. Get "Karma."   
  
Yeep! I guess I won't shut up now. I've gotten (a lot) more reviews than I originally expected (I'm really grateful, by the way), and I wanted to take a moment to stop and answer some questions. I can't answer all of them, or address everyone, because I don't have access to my reviews (I DO have to sneak on to get this to you people, you know), so I'm just going to answer what I remember. I'm probably missing a lot of stuff, so I'll go back and read through my reviews and see if I can't respond better in the next chapter.   
  
Here goes nothing...   
  
No, I'm not a goth or something. I don't like to be labeled, and I'm not really anything. If I HAD to have a label, most people would say "artist" or "poet."   
  
I'm not overly fond of Blink, although I like their new songs (I like more serious music than their usual), but The Used (obviously) kick ass and I'm a huge fan of Taking Back Sunday. Sadly, I missed that concert.  
  
HCT, I'm glad I could keep your attention   
  
Whoever it was that said that reality is pain, you're absolutely right. Also... how can I be offended by the truth? That would make me a hypocrite and I'd have to hate myself even more than I already do.  
  
Erm... I can't think of anything else off the top of my head, so if I missed someone's important question, just... yell at me... or kick me in the head... or something...


	9. While I'm standing in the river drowning

**The Taste Of Ink**  
MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: To others the pain was obvious, the colors of shame a bruise - unjust.

* * *

Chapter Nine: While I'm standing in the river drowning

* * *

It's awkward this morning, sitting here suffering through another bowl of cold cereal and a cup of lukewarm coffee. Does she expect me to feel guilty for being upset with her last night? Does she expect thanks? If she does, she expects far too much of me, and the stories of "the legendary Battousai" that she heard from her brother aren't very all-encompassing.   
  
Of course she heard me listening to that music last night, there's no way that it could have slipped her notice, because I had the volume up fairly loud. That ought to be enough thanks for her. I gulp down the last of my coffee and am grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair when my cell phone rings. I answer it tersely.  
  
"Yes. I understand. Tell Katsura-sama that it will be done." Generally, I try to keep my conversations to a minimum, and this is no exception.  
  
Kaoru doesn't ask about the phone call, and I don't say anything about it. We both know better than to open our mouths. I mumble something about being home around twelve in the afternoon, and then leave for another fun-filled day in the hell which is called my office.

* * *

Why do I put up with all of this? It's not fucking worth it. Developing a defense for Kaoru's case is hard enough by itself, but now my secretary is being her intensely annoying self. I think there's someone here to see me, but I can't tell what she's saying in that high-pitched, brain-damaging voice of hers. Understanding nothing of what was said over the intercom, I storm out of my office.  
  
"What. Do. You. Want?" I hiss through my clenched teeth.  
  
"I said," she emphasizes the "said," rolling her eyes at the same time, "that the appointment with Mr. Ellis that you had scheduled for eleven-thirty has been cancelled and he won't be showing up."  
  
"For the love of god, woman!" I shout. "Don't you think that I would have realized that when he didn't FUCKING SHOW UP?!"   
  
"No need to yell!" Now she's yelling, too.  
  
"The hell there isn't! You have pissed me off since the day I started working here, and I am sick and fucking tired of you! You're fired!"  
  
Sitting back in her chair, she looks utterly stunned. I spin around and go back into my office, slamming the door so hard that the frosted glass shatters, dispersing shards across the thick carpeting.   
  
"Goddamn it!"   
  
I can't take any more of this. This day, or karma, or something, has been out to get me from the moment I woke up. It doesn't matter that it's nine in the morning, I'm going home before I wind up killing someone. Like myself.

* * *

"What are you doing back so early?" Kaoru looks up from her book as I slam the front door shut. At least there's no glass to break on this one.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
The look on her face is surprisingly not one of shock or indignation. It's more poised curiosity and calm acceptance. At the moment, I don't know if that pisses me off or pleases me, but I'm going to go with pleases, because I don't really want to break anything in my apartment.  
  
Straight to the cabinet, the last on the left, and I'm reaching to the very back corner, where I keep a bottle of very well-aged Scotch. I'm not really a drinker, but some days enough is enough. I grab a shot glass, flop down in a chair, and start downing the stuff like it's what I was born to do. Kaoru sits quietly in the adjacent room, intent on her book, but occasionally glancing up at me, almost as if she's checking to make sure I'm alright. Half the bottle is gone before I put it away, but I don't really feel the effect all that much. A little bit lightheaded, but otherwise fine, I rage my way across the apartment and into my room, where I immediately fall onto my bed and close my eyes.  
  
When I've been drinking, I don't dream, and it's such a lovely reprieve. Though I don't expect to fall asleep, since I usually have a difficult time of it, I think I need it. Maybe a few hours of rest will help me shake off the terrible mood I've sunken into.

* * *

"Kenshin. Wake up."  
  
I hear her voice somewhere near my ear, but I ignore it. Whatever she wants can't be that important, anyhow.  
  
"Kenshin," her voice is more insistent. "You've been sleeping for a day and a half." That's enough to jolt me awake.  
  
"What?!" Impossible.  
  
"You just sort of... passed out," Kaoru says softly. "I didn't want to wake you, because you seemed so at peace, but I figured you wouldn't want to sleep for this long."  
  
She didn't want to wake me because I was at peace? This woman is far too nurturing. I swear she tries to take care of me as if I was her child. Somehow it doesn't bother me like I feel it should. At least she woke me up, right? With her court date in just a few days, and me without even opening statements, it's no time to be sleeping on the job. Quite literally.  
  
Wait. Didn't I once tell her to 'never, ever wake me up again'? Goddamn it, now I'm confused. This doesn't happen to me. I always know what I've said and what I've done. I don't do things like this. I think I'm having some type of a breakdown. I sit up, rubbing my head wearily.  
  
The clothes I'm wearing are wrinkled and reek of alcohol. Kaoru leaves the room for me to change, and is waiting for me when I come out to the kitchen. A turkey sandwich sits on a plate on the table, and I sit down to eat it without question. This case is really getting to me. All I need are the details, just to find a way out, but they won't seem to come to me like they usually do.  
  
As I'm silently chewing, Kaoru slides a yellow legal pad across the table, facing it toward me so that I can read it. I decide not to mention that I can read upside down nearly as well as I can right side up (it's a trick of the trade, learn to read upside down quickly so that you can read papers and documents that you might not necessarily have permission to read), and quickly scan the contents of the page. After doing so, I go back and read it all the way through, setting my sandwich down as I look at the wording more closely.  
  
"You wrote this?" I ask, glancing up at her. She nods. "This is good. Very good. Opening statements good."  
  
A smile flashes across her face. Briefly, I wonder why she didn't become a lawyer instead of a graphic designer, besides the fact that she's making more money than I am at that job. Or, was making more money, as she no longer has a job. Usually I despise getting help on my cases, but I think I can make an exception for this. I read it through once more. Everything about it is right. It's the truth, but phrased cleverly to make it sound better, and the wording is excellent.  
  
"This is brilliant."  
  
Now she looks surprised, but still remembers to thank me.   
  
"With this as a starting ground, we may be able to get you acquitted. I typically work on my own, but I think this time I'd be better off if you helped me. Let's get to work."  
  
It hurts to swallow my pride, but I think this is what's called desperation.

* * *

A couple hours later, and together we've managed to get the vast majority of our defense planned out. I feel like an ass for not having asked her for assistance earlier on, before I started beating and drinking myself to death over all of this, but better late than never, right? For the next couple of days, we can relax. Or at least Kaoru can. I don't really know how to relax.   
  
Suddenly I realize something crucial. I was supposed to have assassinated a man last night. Oh. Fuck. This has never happened to me before. Why haven't they called me yet? Have they? Did I miss it? Frantically, I grab my cell phone and dial Iizuka's number.  
  
"Himura! Nice to hear from you!" He sounds pleasant enough. "You are in deep shit." So much for that.  
  
I sigh, and agree. "What should I do?"  
  
"I covered your ass, but if this guy isn't dead by tomorrow morning, you will be."  
  
"Why the fuck didn't you call me and tell me that?!"  
  
"Must have... slipped my mind." Funny. Really funny. Funny enough that I hang up on him.  
  
"Kaoru, I'm going out for a few hours. Don't answer the door or the phone. Stay in your room until I get back." Who knows what might happen?

* * *

The man begs for mercy, offers me money, power, women, whatever I want. I stare down at him, wondering how many more times I would have to hear this speech before I die. Usually I let my victims end their appeal before I kill them, just so they can know the cold finality of rejection when I laugh in their faces, but I'm in no mood to listen to him, so I slice his head off and let the whole thing be done with.  
  
Five minutes to exit the building and I'm on my way home again. All-in-all, the job took me an hour. It's interesting that it takes an hour to eliminate a human being. I suppose most people would think of that as an extremely short time, because it takes so long for people to grow and live and make a mark on the world. I see it as a great amount of my time to waste just to decapitate such a worthless creature. But that's a matter of perspective, I suppose. Somewhat like the glass-half-full-glass-half-empty argument.

* * *

Kaoru is still in her room when I return, spattered in blood. It's so usual to me that I call to her, telling her that I've returned, before I change my clothes, and she stops in shock when she walks out into the hall. Blood is like a decoration, a sick medallion that I wear on my body, telling of my "accomplishments." After a while, you don't notice the smell or the taste or the color. You just notice the weight.  
  
She doesn't like me like this, I can tell. There's news for her, though. I don't care. I just want to get these clothes off and cleaned before the blood stains them. Kaoru is still standing there, staring, when I shut the door to my room.   
  
I strip my clothes off and step into the shower, turning the water on as hot as it can possibly be. The hotter the water, the cleaner I feel. No matter that I'm scrubbing at my skin so hard that some of the blood washing away is mine. It doesn't matter anymore.  
  
Do I feel guilty? Do I regret taking the lives? I think about it for a minute while I let the water flow over me. No. Not really. Do I miss being just another citizen? No. I never was, really. I started playing this fucked up game when I was barely more than a child. No. I don't know. Who am I?

* * *

A/N: Poor Kenshin. OO! THUNDER! :does a lil dance: I love storms. Anyhow, yes. This chapter was fun. Or something. Reference things of DOOM!:  
  
"All I need are the details, just to find a way out" - Sugarcult, "Crying"  
  
I know someone is going to ask this, eventually... "If you don't believe in planning for the future and being successful in life, what are you going to do?" Or some shit like that. I get that a lot, and I'm going to take this moment to rant. I'm going to do whatever pleases me. You don't have to be rich and successful to make your own fun. The gods know we need it in this world. Besides, no matter how badly I fuck things up, I'm only coming back again after I die, so it doesn't really matter. Might as well entertain myself until humanity pisses me off one too many times. You'll probably see me on the news while you're sitting in your comfortable home. I'll be the serial killer. Look for me. Hm. Thinking about what I just said, that came out more superficial than I would have liked. It's late, chalk it up to spending too much time in corporate America. I did get to eat very good sushi at a wonderful Chinese buffet, though... :random Gackt moment::goes off to listen to music that actually has a point:


	10. At last it's finally over

**The Taste Of Ink  
**MysticShadowWanderer  
  
Disclaimer: I am sinking in this silence.

* * *

Chapter Ten: At last it's finally over

* * *

Somebody help me get out of this place. There's just too many fools with plastic smiles adhered to their plastic faces. People don't realize that there's poetry in despair, and being unceasingly happy is not only impossible, but disgusting. But who am I to tell them so? I only know what I'm talking about, so why should they listen to me?  
  
Some days I'd just like to blow this place up. Cause panic on a global scale. But for some reason I've never gotten around to it. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe it's because the desire is based off emotion, and emotion is overrated. Decisions are better made from logic than emotion. But if so, why am I caught up in this mess? Why is Kaoru in my apartment? That wasn't a logical decision, even though the analytical reasons are worthy enough.   
  
She sits across the table from me, quietly scribbling notes, sometimes chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning at eight AM, it will all begin. I get a bad feeling about this case every time I think about it, but I don't know why. The arguments we have are strong enough, I suppose, but at the center of all the fanciful webs of words, deceptions, and illusions that we've woven, there's nothing. And that's the problem. We have nothing. She didn't commit the crime, but to tell the truth is to steal her brother's freedom and ruin him for life. To her, that's a fate worse than her own death.  
  
It's a noble cause to her, and I can see her point of view. But it's so stupid, really. Again, it's about responsibility. The boy was free to make his own choices, but he made a bad choice, and he should have realized the moment those people died that he needed to accept the consequences. That's not the type of thing that's taught in schools though. Maybe it ought to be. I never went to school, not the traditional kind of school, at least. I learned things, but my mind wasn't filled with useless facts and knowledge that does me no good now. I was instructed in the art of killing, studying the masters. It sounds so deranged when I think of it now, but at the time it made perfect sense. Everything is like that when you look back on it, though.  
  
Kaoru looks up at me, her eyes begging me to allow her to speak. I nod.  
  
"Kenshin, if things go wrong, can you do me a favor?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Apologize to Yahiko."  
  
I blink. If things go wrong, if she is indeed convicted, she'll get the chance to speak to him again. Apologies can come from her own lips, not those of a heartless killer. Why would she say that?  
  
Would she kill herself?   
  
Her nature is, really, unknown to me. All I know about her is what I read about her and what I've been able to glean from my minimal conversations with her. I wouldn't guess her to be the suicidal type, but how am I to know?

* * *

Hours pass like minutes, like days, like seconds, like years, like a million colors that run into a single river of red. I glance at my watch, and it's nine forty-eight. Iizuka called me again earlier; I have an assignment tomorrow night. Just what I need after a day in court.   
  
Kaoru's fallen asleep with her head on the table, and I'm weary myself. My mind feels fuzzy, and altogether I feel strange, unlike myself. No longer do I have complete control, some part of my brain is functioning on its own.  
  
I kneel at Kaoru's side and shake her gently; she has to get some real sleep tonight. Her eyes flutter open, and I find myself caught in her blue gaze. We stare at each other, blankly, expressively, quietly, loudly, both unsure and completely sure of what's going on.  
  
Who am I? Who is she? Who are we together? These are the kind of things that I don't usually wonder. I've never cared for who anyone was, nobody but myself. Why is it that I suddenly want to know who she is, and what we mean when we're together? I don't understand.  
  
Kaoru blinks slowly; what is she thinking? Her expression is maddeningly unreadable. What does she want? I have more questions than answers. But at least she replies to my final question, when she leans forward and presses her lips to mine. The kiss deepens. I draw her to her feet.  
  
Within minutes we're in my room.  
  
This isn't, wasn't, supposed to happen. But it did.

* * *

I've never woken up with a woman in my arms. They always leave immediately after I'm through with them. This feeling... it's nice. Everything, her court case today, my assassination tonight, is unimportant as I stare at the ceiling, this time with the unfamiliar weight of her head on my chest. Who am I?  
  
The same person as I've ever been. She hasn't changed me, not really. My heart can't hear hers. We aren't "fated to be together" or any of that bullshit. But still, it's nice.  
  
Her stirring causes me to snap out of my reverie. I can feel her fingers lightly stroking my skin, feel her lips curve upward in a smile. She whispers a "good morning." I don't reply.  
  
The moment can never last forever. Not to human beings, at least. Technically speaking, of course it can, as time is merely the figment of mankind's feeble brains, and what happened five minutes or fifty years ago is still going on now, but we can't live it. I can't live like this forever.  
  
No one can live forever.  
  
I sit up, her head sliding off my chest to rest on the mattress a moment before she draws herself up into a sitting position as well. She's pretty, I realize for the first time. Not the type of woman that you'd notice in a crowd, or stop to look at on the street, but she's got a naturalness about her that's pretty. I don't know why. She's not all that innocent, and she's not naive, so there's really nothing special about her. It doesn't really matter; women come and go.  
  
"Kenshin," she whispers. The sound of her voice hurts my ears, shattering the quietude. I don't want to talk.  
  
I can't let her say anything. I know what she wants to say, and I don't want to hear it. I can't hear it. Some things are better left unsaid. The look in my eyes is enough to quiet her. What can I do? This is not meant to last.   
  
Do I love her?  
  
...I don't know.  
  
Can I love her?  
  
...I don't think so. I don't know how to love. Perhaps I could be taught to love, if time could be taught to end. Time doesn't exist. Love doesn't exist. We don't exist.  
  
We sit and stare at each other, both of us unsure of where to proceed. Oh how I wish she'd stayed asleep. If she could have slept forever...  
  
She's going to talk, regardless of whether I want her to or not. Why should she start listening to me now? I lean forward to press a kiss to her lips to silence her. She pushes me away.  
  
"Kenshin..."  
  
"I don't want this to end like this." I shouldn't have said that.   
  
"What?"  
  
I kiss her again, this time a little longer, a little more passionately.  
  
"Kenshin, I..."  
  
Silence.  
  
Absolute, perfect silence as I pull my dagger out of her throat and wipe it with a cloth. She's not quite dead yet, is she? I watch in morbid fascination as her hand reaches up to caress my cheek before falling away as her body slumps back onto the mattress lifelessly.   
  
She's smiling.  
  
She's been dead all of thirty seconds, and already the choking scent of death stabs at me.  
  
As I stare down at her pale face, gazing at that soft, loving smile, I can't help but wonder... Why do we do the things that we do? Why, in fact, are we living on this earth?

* * *

....sorry about the tremendously long wait, but life has been unkind to Shadow lately, and she couldn't get on the computer.  
  
A/N: Strange way to end a story, but this is it. Someday I may go back and rewrite parts of this, but for now, well... here you have it. If I made you stop and think, it was worth it. The flow of the story may have been slightly incongruent, but our minds and lives are like that. References:  
  
"Somebody help me get out of this place. There's just too many fools with plastic smiles adhered to their plastic faces." - Sugarcult, "Destination Anywhere" (modified from "Somebody help get me out of this place, Too many fools with a smile and a face")   
  
"There's poetry in despair" - AFI, "...But Home Is Nowhere"  
  
"Choking scent of death" - Delerium, "Duende"  
  
Until next time, minna-san, keep broadening your horizons. If just one person heeds the messages contained in this fic, I will feel I've made a difference in the world. I only ask that everyone takes the time to really think about what the central point of this story was. I'd love to hear opinions on that. A reader gets out of a story what they bring into it, yet at the same time a work is self-contained and self-evident. Please speak your minds, if you'd be so kind.


End file.
